


biggest ever sky

by halowrites, lilysaid



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halowrites/pseuds/halowrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilysaid/pseuds/lilysaid





	biggest ever sky

Rodney has only been with the circus for a few months—although being with the circus is a far cry from being _with_ the circus, because Rodney doesn’t glitter or fly or defy any laws of nature. Rodney is business. He takes up receipts, doles out petty cash, keeps track of licensing, and above all, risk management.

Throughout the day, the others see him go back and forth from his shabby trailer to the big top, always clutching a Styrofoam cup of black coffee. They see the way he mutters to himself and snaps when they interrupt him, and the way he sits hunched over his computer past midnight, framed by his window and backlit by a crooked-necked desk lamp.

Another loner, they suppose, because in their line of work they see it often enough. All the traveling and communal living gets to be too much for some people, while the rest of them can’t help but turn surrogate family. It gets them through until the next city, and then the next.

They see the way he looks at them; curious, baffled, at times disparaging, which earns him the reputation of thinking himself too good for this life, but there are some things they don’t see. They don’t see the way Rodney stands just inside the entrance on show nights; not clapping, simply watching, his arms crossed over his chest.

Aiden is the only one who sees. Of course he does; he’s the _Amazing Aiden_ , after all, and he sees everything, even the things he wishes would stay hidden deep inside the people who offer him their hands with open palms, their futures laid out for five dollars. It’s always been this way. Even when he was growing up, he could read his grandmother’s worry as plainly as though it were printed on the tablecloth as she bustled around their small, cheery kitchen, frying up the bacon and telling story after story about the ways in which the Good Lord takes care of his children.

His upbringing aside, Aiden feels nothing but faint pity and a reluctant, stuttering interest like a stalled engine when he sees the way Rodney’s eyes follow the path of the most reckless performer up on the ropes. It’s not an appreciation for the trapeze arts which keeps Rodney captivated in the shadows until those bejeweled, slippered feet have safely landed on solid ground. Rodney, it appears, has interests beyond numbers and projections, because his worry is a tangible beacon that reaches Aiden even from across the room, only unlike his grandmother’s incessant concern, Rodney’s worry is laced with something new: a terrified, frustrated longing that lingers in his spot long after he’s stalked off to his trailer.

***

Teyla and Ronon have a tumultuous relationship which isn’t fully understood by anyone, but is watched with fascination, often with envy. They seem untouchable at times, especially during the long summers when the bonfire draws everyone out into the night, their bodies twined together in a way that suggests that Ronon, the tamer of beasts, has been tamed by Teyla’s swaying hips and skillful sleight of hand.

But the nights always fade to day, and they are just as often on opposite sides of the circle, Ronon’s arms rigid and empty, and Teyla still swaying, twirling; moving to the ever-changing music.

The fires are reserved for nights when they’ve been in one place for too long, which doesn’t seem possible to Rodney, since they never stay anywhere more than two weeks, but they all live this life for a reason. Wanderlust, he supposes; he’d always thought it was just an excuse people gave when they wanted out of the mundane lives they’d made for themselves, but here it’s as real as the wisps of cotton candy that drift from the vendor, insubstantial as a breeze and sweet on the tongue.

He hears them as he lies in his narrow bunk, even over his loudly laboring air conditioner, falling asleep to the sounds of other people’s celebration. In the morning, when he is the only one awake, the ashes still smolder like a secret when he passes by. The trampled earth and lipstick-stained cups speak of an indefinable place which would cause Kavanagh, the most sour-tempered man in the troupe, to joyously shout “I AM KING OF THE GYPSIES!” in the dead of night and cause the others to respond with cheers of approval.

Rodney refuses to spend those nights with his face pressed against the glass, but he hasn’t figured out a way to keep from listening.

***

  
Rodney doesn’t normally interact with the acrobats. The acts which use animals and pyro are strictly regulated, and require Rodney’s close attention in order to keep everything up to code. However, one night in late June, when he walks beneath the big top and sees the mess of knots on a pulley block, he stops in his tracks.

Laura Cadman, still in her flame-embossed leotard, happens upon him, and she’s as good a victim as any. _How_ , he wants to know, and _why_? until she regrets setting foot in the ring. She’s still blinking through his rapid-fire questions when the one the one Rodney likes to watch approaches, loose-hipped and with a smooth stride. For a moment, Rodney’s tirade falters, his eyes fixed on the lean form of John Sheppard.

“What seems to be the problem?” John asks, the most he’s ever said to Rodney, and loaded with all the distrust he feels for outsiders.

“The problem,” Rodney says, drawing himself up and attempting to regain his earlier indignation, “is that this is a _gross_ safety violation! A _knot_? You trust this…this mess of a solution to keep you from falling to your deaths?” He feels ridiculous and furious all at once, but they should know better. No one around here takes anything seriously—or rather, the things they take seriously are all absurd, the way they polish their knives and sweet-talk tigers as though these things could possibly matter.

“Hey, it’s the best we can do.” John leans in to inspect the knots, and finds them as secure as when he’d tied them. What he doesn’t say, what he would never say, is that the entire time he’d been flying with a hand-mended anchor, he’d wondered what it would be like to freefall.

“That’s the most moronic thing I’ve heard all day, and I spent twenty minutes with those talking birds this afternoon,” Rodney snaps. He’s used to this, saying the wrong thing and securing his place on the sidelines, but it’s worse this time, somehow. With John Sheppard’s thoughtful eyes on him, Rodney feels hopelessly ordinary, pathetically earth-bound. It makes him ramble nervously, but people always take his nervousness for something else. “Look, I know you’re-“

“You don’t know anything,” John interrupts, a small smile on his face, voice carefully controlled. He hides his irritation beneath a mask of friendliness that most people respond to, but Rodney recoils. He knows that John Sheppard would never look at him like that and mean it.

Sure enough, John crosses his arms over his chest and says, “You don’t know anything about us, McKay; all you know is Elizabeth Weir and the bottom line.”

Later, Laura will laugh about the stricken expression on Rodney’s face when she relays the exchange to the rest of the troupe, but for now she shakes out her long hair and tugs John’s arm. “C’mon. Forget him,” she says impatiently, “It’s our turn to get the fire started.”

***

Carson's trailer never goes more than a few hours without a visitor in need of care, whether in search of an ankle wrap or an ice pack or just some of his soothing teas. Aspirin and neosporin jostle for shelf space beside exotic jewel-coloured tinctures and bottles of sharp and fragrant herbs, all of them coming together in a tangled chaos of scent that shimmers just beneath his skin. Teyla sits with him in the evenings when the air is still and cool, ancient recipes passed down to her by her grandmother falling from her tongue, and Carson gathers them all gratefully in a battered notebook.

Sometimes he thinks what he provides is one part medicine, three parts magic—straddling a line more precarious than the highest wire, a conjurer in the currency of blood and bone. Not quite a faith-healer, but they trust him, and that knowledge is the most valuable of all.

 _Dr Feelgood_ , Laura murmurs, grinning up at him as he wraps her wrist, her skin still damp and flushed from defying gravity just moments before. “Eye of newt, “ she teases, sing-songing the words, back on her feet again, fingers trailing over a row of tiny amber bottles before she turns back to him. “I don’t suppose you can mix me up something to keep McKay off my back? When he sees this—“ She pauses, waving her bound wrist, and shrugs. “It was nothing more than crappy timing.”

“Can’t you even count right, Cadman?” Carson says, a half-decent imitation of Rodney’s scolding tone, and she laughs against his lips, a genuine belly laugh, bright and sure and real.

***

When they get to the next city, morning practice is disrupted by a crew that goes right to work on the rigging, armed with secure double-ratchets and reinforced cables. Rodney is nowhere to be seen, and with clean cotton towels draped over their necks, John and Laura pace near the entrance, all stretched out and nowhere to fly.

Laura, despite her restlessness, takes joy in any disruption in the daily routine. The part of her that chose this life is the same part that resents early morning practices. Her whole life she had been groomed for this path, but she had taken an abrupt turn just as her parents’ sacrifices had begun to pay off, because there is no romanticism in a point-based judging system. The romance is in the crowd’s gasp of astonishment when she plummets into John’s steady grasp, and in the circle they keep at night, behind flame and laughter and a wealth of trade secrets, some older than time.

Until this life, the only gasp of astonishment she had ever heard was when she’d abandoned the pommel horse in favor of a red and silver spangled leotard. _The only silver I’ll ever wear,_ she thinks every time she puts it on, and it feels like a bright layer of happiness stretched over her skin.

***

  
Only one person has seen the smooth, pale skin that lies beneath the patch Aiden wears over his left eye. Only one, and she knows how to hold things close to her chest, to keep hidden what isn’t hers to tell. She can hold a man spellbound with her hips, her hands, her eyes, and Aiden is no exception. He has the second sight, but even so, he never once saw a hint of Teyla Emmagan coming until she was right _there_ , his world curving to fit the shape of her.

She sits astride him now, long fingers wrapped around his hips, her hair a dark curtain as she dips her head, her mouth a slow, sweet whisper across his. The scent of her is intoxicating, heady and wild, and Aiden knows it will stay on his skin for days to come.

“Be still,” she says, and he is, no sound but the thrum of blood in his veins and the shallow breaths Teyla takes as she moves her hips in wanton, languorous circles, each one bringing a bright wave of pleasure, heat gathering like warm honey in his belly. He wants to reach up to cup her breast, to map the curve of her hip with his hands, to trace the line of her spine beneath his fingertips, but there’s a warning in her eyes. _Don’t touch._

He tried it once long ago, the first night she came to his trailer, the door opening in a tumble of dusk and stars, Teyla tangled up within it. Her eyes had been bright and sure, her mouth filled with a thousand secrets he’s long since forgotten. The way she’d startled when he’d reached for her, though— that, at least, he remembers.

 _Don’t touch_ , and the words dance through his head now as he curls his fingers into his palms, losing himself to the helpless rush of brilliant light that lies within Teyla’s coveted sleight of hand.

***

Sora handles every type of blade with a skill that keeps an audience poised in painful suspense for minutes at a stretch; she spins them into the air where they do their own dance, aided by her quick hand, while she seduces onlookers with her bouncing hips and breasts. _A glorified belly dancer_ , Laura calls her behind her back, and _she won’t be much use once she’s missing a few fingers_ , but Sora has never once fumbled, never pierced her own skin.

Her belly ring gleams ruby-red in the spotlight, but no one gets close enough to see more than a fleeting glint of light. Teyla got close enough, once, and was cut so deeply she still feels the sting of it sometimes, even though the scar has long since faded to a silvery thread.

***

Aiden may be the one who knows everything that goes on, but Teyla is the one who understands what she sees, who can immediately pinpoint the meaning behind the sudden improvements to the dilapidated rigging. The meaning, of course, begins with Rodney McKay.

It had been with a reckless fury that Rodney had sunk so much cash into the repairs—not just repairs, but safety measures beyond what had existed in the first place—and without Elizabeth’s permission. He will answer for it eventually, but for now, he takes a grim satisfaction what he has done. It doesn’t keep him up at night.

When he wakes to the sound of singing, guitar chords strummed out every few bars, it takes him a few moments to pick out the other sound: a rapping on his trailer door.

Teyla is the last person anyone would expect to find at Rodney’s door; he possesses many firmly held beliefs about _hocus-pocus nonsense_ , while Teyla breathes magic into every word she speaks. Neither of them know what to expect when Rodney opens the door, but Teyla meets his eyes and holds them like no one has in a very long time.

“Will you join us?” With an open palm, she stretches out her arm toward the revelry.

Rodney leans his head out into the night, where Teyla’s gold bracelets glint in the firelight, even from this distance. She waits for his response while he squints out into the darkness, into the montage of flickering, shifting shadows, before drawing back inside.

“I don’t think so,” he says, looking more tired now than he had when he’d answered the door. “Thank you, but no.”

She understands that, too. Rodney may be an outsider, but he is still a man. The next time she knocks on his door to extend the same invitation, she gestures toward the fire as if it were  
an offering. The difference is that tonight he can make out the shape of John Sheppard skirting the edges of the circle.

Still, Rodney hesitates. It’s one thing to imagine what goes on out there, and quite another thing to actually walk amidst the smoke and flame. But once Teyla’s hand is in his, Rodney doesn’t stand a chance. There are certain places where he could never go without being led, and Teyla, a reassuring smile on her lips, hooks her arm into Rodney’s and leads him exactly there.

***

They aren’t uncivilized, as so many outsiders mistakenly think, but there are traditions they uphold. One such tradition is the antiquated silver cup that passes around the circle, refilled over and over again with Zelenka’s heavy red wine. The drink is sweet on the tongue and sweeter still to be shared, passed from one hand to another in an exchange that binds them all together in this one continuous act.

Rodney had half-expected Teyla to stay with him, but after she brings him there, carefully maneuvering around Zelenka, who is sprawled out on the ground, she disappears and leaves Rodney to his own misgivings. He is nearly invisible in the spot where he leans against the deep-grooved bark of an old Oak tree. It gives him the opportunity to watch the others, so sure of their places beneath the wide, black sky, completely unguarded as they weave patterns of movement through the night.

What is foreign to Rodney is the way they touch. They are all beautiful, so it makes sense that it would be this way; that they would reach for one another and cling with graceful, hardworking hands for a dance, an embrace, a moment of shared laughter. He catches a glimpse of Carson across the circle, walking in the direction of the bathrooms. When the doctor passes Ronon in the crowd, his hand goes to Ronon’s hip. At the same time, Ronon’s hand comes to rest on the back of Carson’s neck, a silent exchange that occurs in the time it takes for Carson to pass.

Rodney doesn’t believe in magic, but they all seem to glow with it tonight; the same force which makes the acrobats fly, which tames Ronon’s beasts, which can bring forth rain when Teyla wills it so. Fire is nothing but a trick of the eye, and Rodney’s chest aches with what it shows him.

There appears to be some type of competition on the other side of the circle, because the cheering swells to a crescendo and then breaks into laughter and calls for more drink at almost the same time Rodney hears the crackle of explosives, a burst of yellow and blue sparks in the sky.

“What is it with you people and fire?” he mumbles, and kicks at a tree root. When he looks up, it is into John Sheppard’s face.

“Hi,” Rodney says, though it seems drawn out of him, not of his own power.

John nearly fades into the night with his dark clothing and dark mop of hair, but his eyes catch the light like one of Ronon’s big cats, luminous with caution, as though he might bolt—or attack—at any given moment. The danger is in Rodney’s imagination; it had been John earlier, plucking at the guitar, taking requests and faking it when he didn’t know the tune. John, who had taken Zelenka’s arm over his shoulders and gently guided him to a soft, grassy clearing.

“What’s that?” John asks.

“I…” Rodney has always wanted to meet up with John in this way, and now he’s going to ruin it by saying, “The fireworks. They don’t have a permit.”

John nods seriously, as though it is honestly a consideration, and then lifts a somewhat tarnished silver cup between them. Rodney’s mind is a hundred frenzied thoughts of poison and communicable disease before John sighs and takes Rodney’s hand, wraps it around the cup, and leans in, his voice low and impatient.

“Drink, and then pass it on. When it’s empty, you fill it up over there.” His hand is warm where it rests on Rodney’s fingers, still wrapped around the cup.

“Who do I pass it to?” Rodney asks. John has already had some; his lips have a deep red tint and his breath carries the same sweet, rich spice as the cup in their joined hands. Rodney wants to taste it there first, and as though reading his mind, John abruptly steps away.

“Anybody you want; just don’t break the circle,” he says as he walks off, and that night Rodney dreams of spilled drink that douses flame after flame.

***

Rodney’s mouth is drawn tight and thin when Carson opens the door to him, his eyes bright with anger, but there’s something else there, too. Fear, perhaps, and Carson can see it in the way Rodney’s moving, pacing, bringing his hands together then wrenching them apart again, over and over.

“Rodney,” Carson says, stepping out of his trailer, squinting against the bright noon sun. “Something I can do for you?”

“There’s been,” Rodney says, the words tumbling unchecked from his mouth, “an, an—“ gesturing wildly somewhere over his shoulder, and it’s then Carson notices the tips of his fingers, stained with deep crimson, and he doesn’t need to know any more.

“Show me where,” he says, already starting to run, and Rodney’s face is a wash of relief as he keeps pace.

Ronon’s trailer, and there’s a scatter of people milling around, a rise and fall of voices as he and Rodney approach. Carson can’t make out the words, but the tone is enough for a chill to wind along his spine, set his pulse racing, even as a strange sense of calm settles over his skin. It’s always like this, a balancing act, gut instinct and sheer terror battling it out inside.

Teyla stands at Ronon’s door and she steps aside with a nod, allowing Carson to pass, but reaching out a hand to place a gentle palm against Rodney’s chest. “Enough,” she says, simply, and that’s the last thing Carson hears before the door is closed again and he’s left standing in the cool darkness of Ronon’s trailer.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust, and then he can make out the line of Ronon’s shoulders, the curve of his neck. He’s sitting on the floor, naked from the waist up, head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. Carson drops to his haunches, one hand finding the dip of Ronon’s collarbone, fingers sliding up to his pulse. It’s slow but steady, the skin beneath his fingertips warm and damp.

“I’m fine, Doc.” Ronon’s voice seems unnaturally loud in the stillness, the ever-present hint of amusement that lies beneath his words still there, and that alone brings bright relief.

“Tell me what happened.” Carson can smell the dark copper of blood, but doesn’t yet know _where_ or _why_ or _how_ —though, the last one, he can guess. Ronon’s skin carries the scent of the big cats, a thick musk that sits at the back of Carson’s throat and brings a strange heat to the pit of his belly.

Ronon is silent for a moment, meeting Carson’s eyes defiantly. “It’s no big deal,” he says, after a beat. “Looks worse than it is.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Carson chides gently, his fingers still pressed to the steady beat of Ronon’s pulse. He slips them away and feels Ronon’s throat move as he swallows, the heat from his skin. “Where’s the wound?”

Ronon sighs and shifts himself forward, away from the wall. He says nothing, but Carson hears his sharp intake of breath, sees the tension written in the lines of his body. “My shoulder,” he says softly, and waits with his head bowed, face hidden in the shadows cast by the tangle of his hair.

There’s a lot of blood, already starting to congeal in places, and underneath, a jagged line of torn flesh from his left shoulderblade to the curve of Ronon’s armpit. Clawed, Carson thinks, but says nothing; knows Ronon places more faith in his big cats that he does in most people. “Another scar to add to your collection,” he says, knowing Ronon wears all of them with pride. “It’s not that deep, but I’ll need to stitch it.”

“Chaya,” Ronon says, the name of the tiger spoken quietly, reverentially, almost to himself, his head still turned away and blood still trailing along his skin. “She was spooked by Kavanagh, with his yelling and arm-waving. That’s all. She would never--”

“Of course,” Carson says, because he’s seen Ronon with the tigers, man and beast, a mutual sense of respect he honestly believes neither would ever breach.

Ronon turns to face him, his gaze as sure and steady as his voice. “McKay didn’t believe me.”

Carson grins, his fingers slick with Ronon’s blood, the scent of it filling his head. “Well, McKay’s not scared of anyone, not even Kavanagh. Maybe you should stick your head in _his_ mouth.”

That earns Carson a genuine smile, Ronon’s mouth stretched tiger-wide in delight, his eyes almost disappearing. “Maybe,” he says, the smile still lacing his words. “But, you’re wrong. I think Sheppard scares him, a little.”

 _More than a little_ , thinks Carson, but out loud he only says, “Let’s get you cleaned up, then.”

*

  
Even as a kid John had tried to soar, to leave solid earth behind in favor of wide open skies and cool, clear breezes. He leaped from trees and garden walls, skinning his knees and tumbling to the ground, over and over, head tipped back, shouting his breathless frustration into blue.

The first time he stepped onto a plane, felt the shift and rattle as the pilot tucked the wheels away, gravity pressing him back into his seat, something in his chest bloomed bright and hot and _right._

Years later, and it was him at the controls, slicing through the clouds, seeing the world in whole new ways, his chest not nearly big enough to hold everything rushing through him. Coming back down to earth was almost a physical pain, his breath slipping away as fast as the ground coming toward him.

The first time John ever stepped off the spangled platform and let himself fall endlessly forward, no floor beneath his feet, no cabin roof above his head, it was a leap of faith unlike anything that had gone before. A whole new world had opened up before him, his for the taking, and at that moment, he’d believed there could be nothing else but this.

Until Rodney McKay.

“He fascinates you, doesn’t he?” Aiden’s voice drifts somewhere in the darkness, and John swears he can see the words etched on the sky, written in silver. A mind-trick, maybe, but more likely, it’s the fragrant smoke that fills John’s head, curls across his tongue.

“He irritates me,” he says, passing the joint back to Aiden, watching the tip of it dance red-hot against the stars, knowing that’s not how it is at all. Aiden knows that too, but stays silent, waiting for the next words from John’s mouth, for the truth that somehow always makes its way through all the tangled tales they weave.

He waits for what feels like close to forever, John’s breathing slow and even, the sky pressing down to fit against their skin like it’s trying to become part of them.

Almost forever, until John finally sits up, arms wrapped around his legs, strangely earthbound, and says quietly, “He makes me feel like I’m falling.”

 _Because you are_ , Aiden thinks, closing his eyes against the brilliant shine of the stars. _You just don’t know it yet._

***

Whenever Elizabeth pulls up in her sleek sedan--rare, and always without warning--the entire circus undergoes a subtle shift in atmosphere. John watches her progress from the shadows of the big top, coming forward only when she asks him a question, more than ready to take flight again the moment she’s passed by. Rodney trails along behind her, a sight that brings John a strange sense of dismay, seeing him fall so readily back into the world he’s seemingly trying so hard to leave behind.

“That the boss lady?” Laura asks from just behind him, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth’s carefully-styled hair and immaculate shoes. Laura’s own hair hangs loose down her back, her feet clad in dusty silver ballet slippers, tiny sequins missing in places. “She looks, um. Serious.”

“That’s her.” John watches the way Elizabeth tilts her head to listen to Rodney, who is waving his arms in the direction of the animal enclosures. Snatches of their conversation drift across the trampled grass, words like _risk_ and _safety_ and _responsibility_ \--the type of words John happily leaves behind every time he closes his eyes, stretches out his arms and falls forward into blue.

“Ugh,” Laura offers by way of commentary, wiggling her fingers at John over her shoulder. “Count me out. I’d rather hang with the monkeys.” She saunters off, little puffs of dust kicked up by her sequinned feet, the sway of her hips loose and inviting. John’s tempted to follow for a moment, a flicker of heat in his belly at the sense memory of her nails at his back, her teeth against his shoulder, but he stays where he is, drawn by the cadence of Rodney’s voice.

***

  
“You can’t be serious,” Rodney says, Elizabeth’s face remaining completely, infuriatingly impassive. “You’re expecting me to produce results out of nothing but thin air? If it’s conjuring tricks you need, you should go see Teyla—“

Elizabeth smiles coolly. “You’re my business manager, Rodney. It’s your job.”

Rodney bites back what he really wants to say, with considerable effort. “And this is their life, Elizabeth. They don’t get to lock the office door and leave to go home at the end of the day. This is their home.” He sweeps a hand through the air, indicating the scatter of trailers, the bright jangle of tents and animal pens, the close-knit community he feels fiercely compelled to protect even if there’s a tightness in his chest whenever he wonders exactly where he fits into it all.

 _Nowhere, that’s where._

He pushes the tiny voice away, and thrusts an unruly bundle of papers at Elizabeth. “Here. This is what I’ve figured out so far, and if you’d just _look_ at it—“

“More meaningless facts and figures?” She glances at his pages of scribbled notes, charts and graphs and budgets Rodney’s spent his evenings putting together. There are other pages too, pages she’ll never get to see, safely tucked away in his trailer. Pages filled with lines of careful script about everyone here he’s met, the things he’s seen as he’s stood on the outskirts, watching them live their lives by firelight. There are three pages alone written about John Sheppard, and Rodney’s face fills with heat, thinking about how ridiculous, how hopeless, this all is.

“Just some ideas I think might work,” he says, but Elizabeth has already started to walk away.

***

“She does not smile a lot, your boss,” Zelenka says, falling into step beside Rodney. His hair is randomly braided with a rainbow assortment of beads, tufts sticking out at odd angles, and there are dark kohl circles around his eyes, his mouth a brilliant slash of scarlet.

“No,” Rodney notes glumly, glancing across at him, then adds, “She’s your boss too, really.”

Zelenka shakes his head, beads clattering wildly. “No one is the boss of me, Rodney McKay. Not where it counts.”

“Yes, well, we can’t all be carefree and happy like a clown—“

“I am a laughter technician,” Zelenka says, in all seriousness. “You say clown, I say tomato.”

Rodney huffs out a breath in exasperation. “I think—“

Zelenka claps his hands in delight. “There, you see? That is your problem, Rodney McKay. All the thinking.” He claps again, a grin spreading across his face. “I can make her smile, I think.”

“Famous last words,” Rodney mutters, watching Zelenka as he bounds away on what has to be a fool’s mission in pursuit of Elizabeth Weir.

***

Rodney pushes aside the flap to Aiden’s tent and lets himself inside when no one answers his call. A quick glance around reveals the expected array of items: tapestries, candles, and a few pieces of unmatched furniture. On the table lies a stack of tarot cards, a deck of swords and stars that despite the yellowing edges are still smooth and unmarked on the faded matte drawings.

Aiden appears from behind a curtain, in the process revealing a glimpse of what lies behind. Rodney averts his eyes, but not before he sees a shapely bare leg that stretches across a rumpled bed. It’s been over two years since Rodney has had anyone in his own bed, and with a stab of paranoia, he wonders if Aiden can see _that._

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Aiden says, still tucking in his shirt. “Lucky for both of us I sensed you coming.” He taps his temple and grins, because Rodney is ridiculously easy to rile up with any mention of the mystical world.

Rodney snorts. “If you’re so all-knowing, then why didn’t you…oh, I don’t know— _save Ronon?_ ”

Aiden just shrugs. He can’t tell Rodney that there is so much blood in Ronon’s past, present and future that it’s impossible to untangle the dangerous threads and place them where they belong. And if Rodney knew about Ronon’s complete lack of fear, he would certainly consider him a liability.

“Everybody always asks about other people, when they should really be asking about themselves,” Ford says, instead.

“I’m not asking anything,” Rodney says, waving his hands in front of him as if to erase the entire conversation. He has no patience for all this voodoo, especially from a kid who wears Nikes and actually gets a _milk mustache_ when he drinks.

“I know.” Aiden sits down at his table with a lock-box that spills over with money, papers and receipts when he turns the key. “Consider this a freebie, all right? He likes ferris wheels, college football, and anything that goes over two hundred miles per hour.”

“Who likes those things?”

Aiden smiles, and Rodney thinks he hears a low laugh come from behind the curtain. “You know who,” Aiden says. “And he’s not as tough to crack as you think.”

“I-“ Rodney feels foolish and annoyed all at once; he shouldn’t listen to a word Aiden says. Taking relationship advice from a fortune teller? It seems like every day he stays with this circus is a new low. “What are you saying?” he asks, nonetheless.

“I’m saying that you’ve already got his attention. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to finish collecting those receipts,” Rodney says, his stomach plummeting at the very thought of doing _anything_. If he has Sheppard’s attention, it’s not because of admiration on Sheppard’s behalf, he thinks. “On second thought, I’ll just come back later,” he says. “Have them ready by six.”

***

On the most sultry afternoons near summer’s end, Teyla can be found beneath the frayed purple awning that hangs over Dr. Beckett’s trailer. She is headed toward that cool sanctuary when she makes a detour to check in on Ronon, whom she suspects may wish to join her. Even before she arrives, she can hear the sound of high-spirited laughter, unusual for this late in the day, when everyone is normally wilted and miserable. She quickens her pace and when she rounds the corner, finds a pleasing sight.

The troughs, normally filled with cloudy, stale water, have been scrubbed clean and dragged out into the open, nearly brimming with clear water from a hose that Ronon wields as if it’s no big deal at all.

To Ronon, nothing ever appears to be a big deal. It is a trait that causes Carson an inordinate amount of worry--not only for Ronon’s safety, but concern for all the questions Carson wants to ask, questions which require answers worth more than a silent shrug.

For everyone else, the troughs are a thrilling diversion, a glorious excuse to abandon their work. John stands off to the side, wearing just a pair of gym shorts and smiling tolerantly while Laura splashes him from where she stands knee-deep in the biggest trough. The clowns have taken over one trough, mostly stripped down to their underwear, because they don’t do things halfway. Just as Teyla approaches, there is a tremendous splash, and Zelenka’s head surfaces, dripping wet.

“They look happy,” Teyla says, smiling up at Ronon. He is shirtless, his back still bearing jagged stripes of pink, tender skin.

“They were hot,” he says simply.

“Yes. As am I,” she admits, and in response he points the hose at the sky, his thumb pressed to the nozzle, sending down a cool drizzle of rain, enough to raise goose bumps on her bare shoulders. She shivers as the water trickles down her arms, aware for the first time of Sora, who is perched on the edge of a trough. In Teyla's eyes she is a palette of vivid color; her hot pink bikini top striking against her skin, her autumn-colored curls pinned up with jeweled barrettes.

Teyla is known for her sensible nature, which is why it seems so unlikely that her head would still turn toward Sora after all this time. And yet, in Teyla’s mind, the animosity between herself and Sora is a strong thread, as binding as any of the friendships she has made, and twice as compelling.

There is a sudden shriek when John produces an enormous water gun from behind his back, already pumped and ready to chase Laura, who leaps over the trough, screaming with laughter, hair flying in every direction. John and Laura are well-partnered; similar in temperament, skill, and background. They both have parents who probably cry themselves to sleep every night over their child’s wasted potential, but they are far better off with the lives they’ve made for themselves.

 _I’m the girl most likely_ , Laura had said when she’d met John, whose hand still had ached at times with the ghost of a salute, nothing but muscle memory. He had understood her wry words completely. They’ve both left behind the weight of endless expectations and harbor no regrets, only a hunger for freedom, which they find every time they step off the platform and into the sky.

***

It’s not that Kavanagh means to rub everyone up the wrong way; it’s just that somehow it always happens regardless. _One time_ he had lost his temper with one of the ponies, and has been paying for it ever since. His reputation has always worked against him. In any other environment, he wouldn’t have had a chance, but the circus fosters a strong sense of community, and as a result he finds acceptance as often as he doesn’t…not that he cares. He is what he is, and if the rest of them are too busy fawning all over one another to notice him, then so be it. His resentment over being overlooked only flares up every now and then, and it is then that things seem to go wrong.

It’s not the way he looks—though his gangly frame and thin-lipped features don’t help matters—but an indefinable friction that seems to arise any time he tries to make a connection with another person. His most spectacular failures always occur when he attempts to make that connection with the most elusive, elegant woman he has ever observed from afar: Teyla Emmagan.

Needless to say, she has never paid him a moment of attention. Kavanagh spends a lot of time wondering how on earth Aiden Ford of all people can have caught her attention, when his very occupation is a _joke_ , and whatever is hidden by that ever-present patch must be unpleasant, at best.

The truth is that Teyla takes great pleasure in being with someone who knows exactly what she wants; neither words nor pretense are needed with Aiden. He is the only person who has never asked her to lie, because in Aiden’s world there is only what he sees, and he sees everything.

Kavanagh probably shouldn’t have waited until the dress rehearsal for Elizabeth Weir and her pack of suits, but he has been watching Teyla pace the length of the wings for twenty minutes now, her high, gold-strapped heels leaving tiny tracks in the dirt floor. And there are people around, which means he’s bound for ridicule, but she moves with a grace that makes him swell with longing. It has to be now.

“I, uh. If there’s a circle tonight,” he says abruptly. She blinks up at him with surprise, her brow furrowed, her dark eyes set off by the colored jewels which scatter like stars from temple to cheekbone. “If there’s a circle,” he continues, aware of his poor posture, his fidgety hands, and of all the snide remarks he’s made toward her friends in the past, “May I have a dance? With you,” he adds quickly.

Teyla is genuinely surprised. _Pony-hater_ , she hears faintly in her head—Laura Cadman’s voice—but Kavanagh is a lonely man, so she bows her head in assent and says, “Of course. One dance,” she adds firmly, in case he has the wrong idea.

“I’ll see you, then,” he says, grinning brilliantly, backing away as though she is likely to take it back if he says anything further. Luckily, Teyla disappears into the corridor that leads to the dressing room, and he is left to bask in victory for all of thirty seconds.

“ _With you_ ,” Sora mimics, sashaying up to him in a way that makes him flush with heat under his collar, her pale skin decked out with all the charms and gauzy scarves that amount to her costume. “You don’t have a chance.”

Her belly looks soft and vulnerable above the golden chain that circles her hips, and always reminds him of Teyla. Kavanagh turns away, blushing fiercely over a memory that is not rightfully his, and goes back to his work.

*

There’s going to be a circle tonight; everyone feels it, even though they haven’t had one in weeks. It’s been too hot, but a cool breeze has been hurrying clouds across the sky all day long, just in time for them to set up on the fairgrounds of a small Nebraskan city.

Rodney has heard the low buzz of excitement around the grounds all day, snatches of conversation drifting over to him as he sits on the steps of his trailer, sorting through endless stacks of receipts and papers filled with mind-numbing legalese. By early evening, he can feel it, too: a bright hum of anticipation that spans the length of his spine and finally comes to settle in his belly.

As the shadows grow longer and the first stars pierce the night sky, people start to drift toward the field where the circle is to take place. Rodney can see the pale glow of the fires already, just beyond the scatter of trees that give shade to the animal pens. He closes his eyes and for a moment, he could be anywhere-- a thousand miles away, in another life, with a home that doesn’t move beneath his feet and someone waiting for him.

The gentle touch of fingertips on his skin, and he opens his eyes to Teyla, barefoot, the fringing on the hem of her skirt trailing on the ground. There’s a secret smile on her lips as if she can see into his head and read every thought that tumbles about in there. “It will begin soon,” she says, tipping her head toward the light of the fires, and there seems to be more that lies beneath her words than a simple invitation.

Still, it _is_ an invitation, and one Rodney can’t refuse, even if he’s not quite ready to acknowledge the flutter in his chest as anything more than a side effect of standing up too fast.

Teyla doesn’t speak again as they make their way to the field, the sounds of laughter and the soft crackle of the flames getting closer. Ronon steps from the shadows to walk beside them, and even in the half-light, Rodney can see his arm slip around Teyla’s waist, the sight of the two of them together making something catch in his throat.

On the other side of the fire, Zelenka is holding court, stripped to the waist, his skin gleaming golden under the stars. As Rodney watches, he tips backward in a perfect arc, landing neatly on his palms, legs tangled elegantly in the air. Rodney can’t help but smile, even as he wonders what it must be like to have so much faith that not even the risk of falling matters.

“McKay,” someone says at his side, and he turns to see Laura, her eyes glittering, her mouth stained red. The heavy silver cup is in her hands, and when she lifts it, it chimes softly against the bracelets that she wears. The sound is hypnotic, like the heady scent of the wine when she presses the cup to Rodney’s lips, urging him to drink. He does, letting the rich red liquid spill over his tongue and fill his mouth, feeling the slow burn all the way down his throat.

“Your turn now,” Laura says, wrapping his fingers around the cup, her lips curving into a smile. “You’ll find him over there.” She’s gone again before Rodney can find the words to ask who she meant, even though he already knows the answer.

 _Like she crawled into my head_ , he thinks, red spice thick across his tongue, lying hot in his belly, the flames licking patterns onto his skin. She’s right, too—Rodney can see John Sheppard from where he stands, silhouetted against the night sky. He takes a mouthful of wine, then another, and starts to walk over before he loses his nerve.

“Here,” Rodney says, as he gets closer, all hopes of smoothness vanishing as soon as John looks up at his approach. “The wine,” he adds, hoping the darkness is enough to cover the sudden flare of heat in his face, the way his hands shake as he holds the cup out to John.

“Right,” John says, the brush of his fingers as he reaches for it cool and sure, even as Rodney feels as if he’s been doused in flame. John lifts the cup to his mouth, and Rodney waits, frantically searching for things to say. It’s so easy when there are facts and figures to hide behind, rules and regulations to use as a shield, to deflect from what he really means. Out here, underneath the stars, there are suddenly no lines to read between. He feels flayed wide open, all his secrets written on his skin in white-hot flame.

Rodney sees the cup fall from John’s fingers to the ground. “It’s empty,” John says softly, and Rodney’s heart flutters in his throat, certain he’s committed some unspeakable crime. All at once he feels foolish, angry with himself for ever thinking this was a place he could belong.

“I didn’t mean—“

“The circle won’t be broken,” John says, his eyes meeting Rodney’s and holding his gaze, right before the world narrows to hands wrapped around his hips and a mouth against his own, John’s tongue as cool and sure as his fingers had been earlier. It’s like everything and nothing Rodney imagined, free-falling into blue, over and over, John’s hands the only things anchoring him to the earth, John’s mouth savouring every last drop of wine from Rodney’s lips.

***

Ronon is always among the last to tire of dancing, and even then there is always a second wave of revelers who make their way to their feet well past midnight. For now, he ventures away from the fire, searching for a quiet piece of earth where he can rest. He is about to settle on a spot when he sees a light patch on the dark ground, a plush blanket spread out as though waiting for him. When he gets closer, he sees that the dark shape on the blanket is Carson, his legs stretched out before him.

“There’s room for you here,” Carson calls out to him, barely audible over the noise of the circle, even from this distance. Ronon pauses momentarily; this is far for the doctor to go, just to get him to take it easy.

“I’m fine,” he says cautiously, even as he lowers himself to the ground, folding his limbs onto the blanket. When he is settled, he lifts the mass of dreads from his neck, pulling and twisting his arms back in order to wrap his hair in an elastic band.

“I never said you weren’t. Here, let me..?” Slowly, Carson reaches for the elastic and Ronon allows it. Carson is one of only two people Ronon allows to touch him, and this is new, this non-emergency contact.

He bows his head while Carson combs the long dreads with his fingers, away from Ronon’s face, feather-light touches on Ronon’s temples and neck, gentle washes of sensation that go through him like a tremor of fear, only it isn’t fear—not this time. A hundred times Carson has mended his wounds, and this has never happened, the heat beneath his skin that rises up to meet Carson’s hands. Then, the cool night air prickles at the back of Ronon’s neck, the elastic snug and secure.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly. He is laconic at the best of times, but tonight there is even more reason for caution.

Carson lets his hands fall back onto his lap and nods, satisfied. The cup has made its way past his lips several times tonight. “I saw you dancing,” he says to Ronon, who dances his way round the circle nearly every time the fires blaze. Everyone has seen Ronon dancing. Carson has no reason to think that his attention is more welcome than anyone else’s, but he has felt the strength of Ronon’s body beneath his hands, and the softness of his skin, as fragile as any human being.

“I’m fine,” Ronon says again.

Carson nods to himself, torn between resignation and determination. He isn’t on duty; he does not speak out of some concern for Ronon’s health, but Ronon, who can read his beasts with every swish of tail and twitch of ears, doesn’t recognize the signals that Carson is putting forth, even when he lays his hand against the small of Ronon’s back, and then beneath the hem of his shirt.

Ronon’s chest expands with a sudden inhalation, but he says nothing. He simply allows it, hugging his arms around his knees while Carson searches out the scars with his fingers and maps their patterns from memory. The touch is gentle, yet confusingly seductive to Ronon, who cannot reconcile the sensual drag of fingers with their usual interaction.

Dizzy with sensation, he bows his forehead to his knees, his face hidden by the cradle of his arms, and murmurs, “That feels good.”

“Aye, it’s supposed to feel good,” Carson says, and Ronon turns toward him, caught by the doctor’s strange tone.

He holds Carson’s gaze for one tense moment where Carson is half-afraid of what that fierce expression on his face could mean, and then his hands are on Carson’s shoulders for the brief push-and-pull of upheaval before he can press the doctor to the ground with the weight of his own body. There isn’t even time for Ronon to catch his breath, just the hot, wet taste of fear and excitement when Carson’s mouth opens against his own, and beneath that, a low, gratified sound that he certainly understands.

***

His hand twisted in the front of Rodney’s shirt and kissing the whole while, John leads Rodney away from the fire with slow backward steps that take them to a bench outside Aiden’s tent where the fire is just a glow in the distance.

Rodney’s head is a flurry of random, panicked thoughts— _where are we?_ , and _is this even allowed?_ and _John’s hips, oh God, his thighs_ , and all the other places Rodney is discovering he is welcome—until one of the fragments inevitably breaks free. “The cup-“ he gasps, drawing back a few inches, far enough to see John’s face, the way his mouth glistens wetly all the way down to his chin.

The cup had been picked up and refilled before John and Rodney had even left the circle. “It’s taken care of,” John says. He doesn’t know what else to say, how to calm Rodney’s nerves, so he presses his warm, swollen lips to Rodney’s until his increasingly urgent kisses become a question and Rodney’s answer is _yes, yes, yes._

They kiss for what seems like forever, until John ends up straddling Rodney’s thigh in an attempt to get closer, their bodies twined together in an impossible position, their skin damp with sweat. John rocks against Rodney with every breath, gasping in tandem with Rodney’s helpless pants for air, until they’re both trembling with exertion and pent up arousal. Rodney can do nothing more than strain up against the place where John is pressed into his lap and greedily work his hands beneath John’s shirt.

“I want you,” Rodney breathes into John’s neck, burning hot against his mouth and tasting of smoke. “You’re so—oh, _oh_ ,” he babbles when John suddenly grinds down against him, _hard_ , hands clamped on Rodney’s shoulders, his intent clear. He rides Rodney with none of his usual grace, with Rodney shaking powerfully against him and the stars spinning out of focus above them both, every thought derailed.

***

Everyone had seen Carson and Ronon at the fire, lying together in the shadows without thought of anyone else. At one time, it hadn’t been in Carson’s nature to put himself in that type of situation, but after attending one of the best medical schools only to wind up rubbing hand-blended potions on llama bites, there is nothing left to lose. When Ronon had pushed him onto the ground and offered hard, slow kisses and the endless press of his body, Carson had shut his eyes and buried his hands in Ronon’s hair, ready to keep him there for as long as Ronon was willing to stay.

Everyone had seen. Days later, Sora is still walking around with a faint memory of them in her mind; or rather, a memory of how she had felt when she’d seen the rise and fall of Ronon’s hips, striking enough to make her stop mid-dance, her blood churning with envy. She’s been running hot ever since she saw them, sleepwalking through her days with a sensitivity between her legs that has spread and deepened until it aches, a perpetual flush down her neck.

Due to her contrary nature, Sora likes secrets, and this case is no different. There is a thrill in the fact that no one knows how wet she is beneath her long skirts, and that with every movement, pleasure laps at her like a gentle tongue. But eventually, it isn’t enough. When Teyla brushes past her in the dressing room, all smooth bare skin and smoky incense that clings to her wild mass of hair, Sora swings her hips toward the touch. Subtlety is for those who are afraid of the spotlight.

Teyla draws back abruptly, her eyebrows high with surprise. It has been a long time since they had mutually agreed upon the distance to remain between them. And yet here is Sora, smiling faintly and bouncing on the heels of her sandals, the straps snaking up around her ankles like glittering vines. Aiden has always predicted this outcome. He doesn’t even bother letting Teyla draw his cards anymore; there’s no point, he says, when the Devil is always paired with the Queen of Cups, her stave wielded like a favored sword. Teyla parts her red-painted lips and takes a quick, decisive breath.

“I will return to my tent in an hour,” she says, and continues past with a bow of her head.

***

Rodney’s trailer shifts under the weight of a visitor on its steps, and shakes outright when the door swings open and shut for just long enough for John to step inside, shedding his slicker and wiping the rain from his face. He hasn’t exactly been invited, but John has always felt at home anywhere inside the scattered tents and trailers that make up his circus, and Rodney’s trailer is bound to be warm and dry.

They have all seen Rodney through the window a million times, yet no one has ever seen him from this side. Rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm up, John falls back onto the tidy blue sofa and studies Rodney’s broad shoulders as Rodney continues to work at his computer, undisturbed.

“Writing a letter to Elizabeth?” John asks, out of no reason other than habit.

“Yes, I’m writing a proposal for your unitard to be even tighter,” Rodney replies idly, his fingers not missing a beat on the keyboard. “Most people don’t think that’s possible, but I’ve always been an innovator.”

Anyone else would hear Rodney’s annoyed tone and take offense, but John has learned that this is Rodney’s way. Besides, Rodney has always shown an extravagant degree of interest in John’s costumes. Rodney has, as John suspects, spent a great deal of time fantasizing about the stretch of sequined nylon that fits so snugly around every part of his athletic body.

“Oh yeah?” John drawls, straightening his legs in a languid stretch. “I’m willing to cooperate if you need to do some more research on the subject.”

Rodney freezes and turns halfway in his chair, his work forgotten when he sees that John has lifted his t-shirt just enough to reveal the silver threaded costume that fits against his belly like a second skin. “Don’t you have practice?”

“Canceled.”

“Oh, yes, yes. The leak in the ceiling.” Another expense that has Rodney frantically crunching the numbers, but even Rodney McKay can’t think of that when there is an intriguing flyboy on his sofa all but asking to be touched.

“You, you’re amazing,” Rodney says later, while his hands are spread out over John’s thighs, returning over and over again to the place where he strains obscenely against his costume. “Ridiculous,” he adds, “But this—this is…” he trails off as his fingers diligently explore the different textures he finds through the thin fabric.

John just holds on, grateful for an anchor for the first time in his life.

***

The talk backstage is that Elizabeth is in the crowd again tonight, fourth row center, a tall male companion by her side.

“He’s a suit, surely,” Laura says, peering through a gap in the heavy velvet curtain, “because she still looks too uptight to be getting laid on any sort of regular basis.”

“ _Laura_ ,” Teyla scolds half-heartedly, a hand to her mouth to hide the smile that’s threatening to give her away. “We do not know any such thing.”

Laura lets the curtain fall back into place and pulls her long hair back into a ponytail, fastening it with a barrette, a shimmer of glitter falling from her bare shoulders. “Call it gut instinct. Anyway, he doesn’t look her type.” She raises herself up on tiptoe, lifts her arms above her head, stretching out one last time as the swell of music from the sound system signals the climax of the jugglers’ act and the cue for her and John to take their place in the ring.

Teyla watches the two of them jog slowly into the riot of colour and lights, the audience clapping and cheering them on, spellbound by the world they’re all weaving under the big top.

If, in fact, Elizabeth Weir actually had a type, it would not be Steven Caldwell. He’s charming enough, arriving at her door punctually, a polite smile as he helped her with her coat and then took her arm, but he’s just not—

Elizabeth frowns, because she doesn’t really know what he’s not. All she does know is what he _is_ —safe, sensible, _boring_ —and that’s not what she’s after. She is, however, after his money, hoping that maybe tonight he’ll finally make a firm decision about investing in her company.

 _Your company? It’s a circus, Elizabeth._ Her father’s voice, the derision just barely hidden, and she feels that same old flare of anger, tempered by weariness. She’s come this far, left the past behind, and there’s no going back now. Not even when it’s all poised on a knife-edge, everything she’s worked hard for, all reduced to columns of figures on a page.

 _And all those figures have names and faces_ , she thinks, tipping her head back to watch John Sheppard spin endlessly in mid-air until she’s the one who’s dizzy, her gasp lost in the collective sigh of the crowd as he leaps effortlessly forward to defy gravity once more.

***

Rodney still watches from the wings, but he no longer hides there. At times, he even forgets that he is watching for practical purposes and finds himself hypnotized by Teyla’s shining hoops and colorful bursts of flame. He knows, now, that she can perform wonders beyond the tricks she uses to dazzle the crowd, things that even Rodney can’t explain, doling out her magic in mere glimpses, without apology.

Tonight, Rodney could really use some of Teyla’s magic. With every act, he finds himself craning his neck to seek out the reaction of a man he doesn’t even know, a man who holds this entire world in his hands. He fades to the background during John’s act, but once Rodney can breathe again, he searches the stands for Caldwell’s response to what Rodney can say with confidence is truly the greatest show on Earth.

***

The applause is still echoing through the big top as Ronon and his tigers exit the ring, all sinew and muscle and feline grace. Zelenka and his clowns tumble past the big cats, mouths painted in exaggerated grimaces of fear, cheeks stained red in a parody of pleasure, spilling onto the sawdust in a tangled rainbow of colour.

Zelenka works to a constant soundtrack of pure laughter, works with it, coaxing the crowd into the palm of his hand and never letting them go as he lopes around in endless circles, performs countless cartwheels and handstands, an alchemy of sheer joy.

 _Fourth row center_ , he thinks, and if there’s an extra twist at the end of his final backward salto, an elaborate flourish to his bow as the crowd get to their feet, stamping and cheering, Elizabeth Weir’s smile shining like a beacon amongst the sea of faces, then he knows it was all worth it.

***

Backstage is a frenzy of activity, the smell of greasepaint and warm skin mixing with the thick spice from a jug of Zelenka’s wine being passed around. The last show in every city is always marked this way, both an end and a new beginning. Rodney can already feel the gentle rock of the trailer beneath his feet, more miles passing by, even though right now he’s standing in a rare quiet corner, John’s fingers warm against the small of his back.

Laura grins and passes the jug over, tipping Rodney a wink. He flushes with not-so-secret pleasure and her smile widens. “About time, McKay,” she says as she wanders off again, all spangles, swaying hips and an uncanny knack of getting inside his head.

“See?” John murmurs, his lips moving lazily against Rodney’s neck, “she’s not so bad.”

“It’s not her I worry about,” Rodney says quietly, catching sight of Elizabeth’s dark hair in the melee of people, the figure of Caldwell not far behind. The buzz of conversation rises to a single point of noise, then fades just as quickly, and Rodney’s belly flips with something a little like dread, because this is it.

“Moment of truth,” John says, just low enough for Rodney to hear, one last squeeze of his fingers, and Rodney holds on to that sensation for as long as he can.

“Elizabeth,” he says, stepping forward. “And Steven, hello.”

Caldwell nods briefly, his face not betraying anything. Rodney resists the urge to shake him, to demand an answer, and makes do with putting his hands in his pockets, hoping for a casual look, knowing it’s really because they’re shaking.

Elizabeth’s face is just as composed, no hint of anything Rodney can see, just--nothing. His heart races, and he wishes he could fast-forward time. Or rewind, or—

“Yes.”

The word hangs between them, and Rodney blinks, nothing in his head but the roar of his own pulse, his own breathing, and did she just say— _yes_?

“You mean-- Elizabeth--?”

Elizabeth’s smiling now, a genuine smile, something shining in her eyes he hasn’t seen for a very long time. “Rodney, he said yes. Steven wants to invest, and—“

The rest of her words are lost to the rise of voices, buried in the cheer that breaks out, a swell of sound that seems to go on forever. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, all his words lost, but it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter, because they’ll be back, he’s sure they will, later when there are plans to be made, things to do.

For now, the sounds of celebration around them, John’s arms warm and safe and sure, it’s more than enough.

 


End file.
